The Viper
by BenedictScumberbatch
Summary: Beautiful, charming creature. Smooth, scaly, sly. Deceiver. A venomed jaw and changing skin, instilling fear within all men. Green as envy, black as lust. Crawls on belly, gnaws on dust. Bruising fangs, strikes to kill. Bites the heart, not the heel.
1. A Tale of Two Women

**A/N: Hello everyone! Welcome to my newest story. I'm pretty excited about this one, and I hope you all are too. I'm interested to know what you guys think of my little poem, so if at any point you feel that you have figured it out, I'd love if you told me. Now, I want you to suspend all ideas you have about what this story is possibly about, because it is most likely not what you think at all, and will continue to be so until you _completely_ understand the riddle. **

**Now, concerning this chapter, it is my (entirely useless) headcanon that Moriarty is a vegetarian. I have no idea why, perhaps I dreamt it up, but I just imagine him to be a bit of a health nut, and also somewhat of a neat freak, so... Here's the first chapter, and the start of the adventure.**

**.**

Jim Moriarty was no ordinary man. Yet here he was, doing the most ordinary of tasks. He gritted his teeth, shifting the shopping basket to his other hand. He hated this. There were far too many idiots, bumbling around, in his way, buying processed stuff that wasn't even food. The only reason he was doing it was because the man he normally had do the grocery shopping had crossed him, and he hadn't had the time to find a replacement.

He rolled his eyes as he pushed his way through the aisles, smoothing the rumples from his suit as he walked. He had stopped by the produce sections, rifling through the crate of apples to find the freshest ones, frowning as all the ones he could see had bruises or other blemishes. He picked up a few of the least damaged apples and placed them in his basket.

Movement caught Jim's eye, and he saw a woman, younger than him by a couple years, dressed in a white blouse and an olive pencil skirt. She shuffled beside him, throwing a few oranges into a plastic bag and tying it off, placing it in her own basket. She had a smile on her small mouth, and Jim waited, counting down the seconds.

Five, four, three, two-

"Oh, um, hi," she spoke a fraction sooner than he had anticipated. "You're Richard Brook, aren't you?" she asked, looking up at him curiously. The smirk still played at her lips.

She had skin that was grey and smooth, and dark curls framed her face. Her lips were thin and knowing. Her eyes were a forest-y green, piercing.

Jim met her emerald gaze, saying nothing. He let his eyes burn into hers, knowledge hanging like smoke between them.

"I know who you are," she whispered, looking him up and down. She took a step closer, now in his face. Jim grinned.

"Then why are you here?" His smile was saccharin and it didn't reach his eyes. His teeth, lion-like, were bared as his lip curled away.

She smiled back, revealing perfect teeth, bright against her ashen skin.

"I want to join you, James."

**...**

In the flat of 221B, Sherlock had his head buried in an experiment, since they hadn't had a case for a while, and John was sitting in his favorite chair, siping tea. It was abnormally quiet, and rather peaceful, until John heard commotion from downstairs.

There was the shuffling of feet on stairs and Mrs Hudson's voice along with another distinctly feminine voice.

"Boys!" Mrs Hudson called as she ascended the stairs, "I believe you have a client!"

A girl stepped into the room. She was young, late twenties perhaps, and her hair was a fiery mane of red tangles.

Sherlock swept into the room upon hearing "client," motioning for the girl to sit, taking his own seat near John.

"What case do you want our help on?" Sherlock cut to the point, skipping pleasantries.

John leaned forward as she began speaking, giving her his full attention. Sherlock watched her, fingers pressed together under his mouth.

"I don't want help on a case," she said easily, crossing her ankles and leaning back a bit.

"I want to help you."

**...**

Jim leaned against the fruit display, eyebrow raised gracefully.

"What makes you think I would allow that?" he asked, licking his bottom lip. "Hmm?"

The woman glanced around the store, leaning in to whisper, "Because I know what you want. You want to take down Sherlock Holmes. And I can help you do that," she promised.

"I don't believe you," he challenged. "You're ordinary, you don't know a thing."

She laughed. "That's only what you think based on what you know. But you might change you mind when I tell you that I was at his flat yesterday. Bloody idiot thought I was there as a client. He believed the whole story I made up," she smirked. "He's stupider than I thought."

Jim examined her thoughtfully, assessing her honesty.

"Right," he grimaced, thinking of the foolhardy consulting detective. "And when did you plan on giving me your name?" He asked.

She smiled slyly. "Lauren." She offered her hand. He didn't take it.

"What's on your face?" Jim asked, noticing the unnatural tinge of her cheekbones. It was not her real skin tone.

"Nothing is on my face," she lied, the corner of her mouth turning up in amusement.

"Of course not," he laughed. Suddenly, he was right beside her, his breath hot on her ear. "I know you're lying." His voice left know doubt that he was talking about not only her disguise, but every word she had said this far.

She laughed, flashing him a smile. It was warmer and truer than her other grins.

"I'm aware."

**...**

"What's you're name?" John asked after she had explained her idea.

The girl smiled at him, her freckled face happy and bright. "Rebecca," she answered. "But I get called Becky and Becca a lot, so that's fine too," she explained.

Sherlock was staring ahead of himself, unblinking and distant.

Rebecca scanned the room. Something caught her eye, and she was on her feet in an instant, striding to the other side of the room.

"Whoa, it's the hat!" she exclaimed, picking up the deerstalker. She turned to Sherlock. "Mind if I try it on? I just can't resist," she asked, bubbling with excitement.

Sherlock gave her a permissive wave of his fingers, going back to his thinking. She giggled, shoving the hat on her head. It was a bit big, and it sagged over her eyes. She pushed it up, strutting around the room importantly, and John's lip twitched in amusement at her impression of Sherlock.

"Rebecca," John started as she put the hat back in its place, retaking her seat. "If you don't mind me asking, how old are you?"

"Twenty seven," she said breezily. "And I don't mind at all, but I won't ask your age," she grinned at him.

Sherlock stood up abruptly, pacing the flat much like Rebecca had done a minute or so ago. John nearly snorted.

Sherlock was muttering under his breath, rapidly and to himself. He turned his attention to Rebecca.

"And I suppose you will require the use of our flat?" he asked to confirm.

Rebecca nodded her head. "If that's not too much to ask, that is. Although I will need to be able to come and go at any time, and I may not be present all that often, it would be beneficial to have my stuff set up here," she explained.

Sherlock nodded. "You can take the bedroom upstairs."

John gapped at him. "But that's my-" his protest was cut short by Sherlock's curt reply.

"As I don't often sleep, it would be unfair to ask Rebecca to stay on the couch, as I am often up and about and I would disturb her with my racket. You will use my room." Sherlock glanced at John, face unreadable, but a muscle in his cheek twitched minutely.

"But what about when you do sleep?" John persisted.

"I'll sleep on the couch. I don't see why this is a big deal." Now Sherlock was carefully avoiding John's gaze, and his back was turned as he continued walking the flat.

John stared after him for a while, incredulous, before sighing in defeat. "Fine," he huffed. "I do suppose it's better for Rebecca to have her own privacy upstairs, having to share a flat with two men. I'll move my stuff out, I suppose."

Rebecca looked between the two men and smiled secretively. Sherlock glanced back at her, almost as if he could physically feel her amusement.

"What are you grinning about?" Sherlock frowned at her, eyebrows lowered in question.

Her smile widened. They both knew. John looked horribly confused as he glanced at Sherlock, then Rebecca, then Sherlock again.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."


	2. The Empty Room

"What? Do you suppose you'll stay with me?" Jim sneered.

Lauren's face grew serious. "Actually, that's what I was hoping for," she said somewhat regretfully, as if apologizing for bothering him. "To make communication easier."

Jim laughed, a glint in his eye. "Oh?" He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "But you've made a mistake," he pouted, eyes unsympathetic. "You're assuming that I'll let you _help_ me," he challenged, glancing down his nose to observe her.

Her lips curled. "Yes, it does appear I've made that assumption. But I'm sure you will," she whispered as she walked around him, twisting like a snake. Her hand reached his shoulder, lightly.

He grabbed he hand, gentle enough not to hurt her, firm enough to get the point across.

He glared at Lauren, eyes burning an unspoken threat. "What makes you think that?" he hissed, still gripping her hand. It was cold, and she didn't flinch at the pressure or his words.

"Because," she said lightly, surprisingly gently, her eyes soft and grassy. "You need my help." She squeezed his hand back. "You need me because I can find out information your best men could not."

Jim narrowed his eyes at her. Their bodies were close together, not passionately, but threateningly. People were watching them. Jim was receiving far too much attention for someone who had been on the news far too much lately, and was trying to stay low-key. He couldn't stay here.

Jim grabbed Lauren's wrist, fingers wrapping supply around the smooth skin. His grip was tight enough to hurt, but not to leave a mark.

"I do not need you," he snarled. "There is nothing you can do for me that I cannot otherwise do." He said each world clearly, pointfully. "Now that I've made that painfully clear, we will continue our little chat elsewhere." He dropped her wrist and turned away, fixing his suit jacket on his shoulders.

Lauren followed him, a smug look on her face. Her feet made no sound as she walked, with the grace of a diving hawk.

Jim did not trust her. He was not stupid. She had lied to him, perhaps even about her name. Still, she had potential, and Jim himself may have lied by accusing her of being ordinary. He knew she wasn't. She was clever as a fox, and she spoke like one plays chess, with careful precision, and a knowledge of her opponent's next move. Jim needed to keep an eye on her, until she either proved her worth or he had her killed. And what better way than to keep her right next to him.

Jim walked out of the store, basket of apples still in his hands. Lauren had the dignity to pay for her groceries before catching up with Moriarty as he exited.

He began walking, tossing the plastic basket aside and taking a bite out of an apple.

"You aren't going to take a cab?" Lauren asked, lifting a slim eyebrow.

Jim shrugged. He put his free hand in his pocket. The wind ruffled his hair and he bit the apple again. Juice ran down his chin, and he frowned internally. Tossing the apple core into the street, Jim wiped his mouth with the back of his hand in satisfaction.

When they arrived, it was clear to Jim that Lauren was surprised by the little flat. It was on the ground floor, and it was tiny, yet lovingly furnished.

Jim smirked at Lauren. "Surprised?"

"Actually, yes. I expected something a bit more... flashy. This is smaller than Sherlock's flat, although there aren't any skulls laying around, so that's a plus, I suppose," she admitted.

So she hadn't lied about her little visit to Sherlock. Interesting.

"A mansion would attract far too much attention, don't you think? Not that I couldn't own one if it suited me," he said pleasantly. "Can I get you something to drink? Some tea?"

"Considering you're a criminal, you're awfully polite. More polite than Sherlock. He was just business. Some tea would be lovely," Lauren smiled, making her way into the living area.

"Not afraid I'll poison it?" Moriarty inquired.

Lauren took a few steps back to look at him through the doorframe. "Not at all," she answered, leaning against the wall and crossing her ankles. Jim raised an eyebrow, signaling her to go on. "I have given you no reason to kill me, and poisoning my tea is far too ordinary for your tastes. Besides, it might be to your benefit to have me around, but you'll have to keep me alive, at least for awhile, to figure that out," she said with a teasing smile.

Jim didn't say anything, but handed her the cup of tea and walked ahead of her to the other room.

The walls were a shade of tan, like coffee splashed with too much cream. There was a white upholstered couch, and two matching chairs. A fire burned warmly, and an assortment of picture frames lined the mantle.

Lauren recognized the photos as those of people Jim had been responsible for killing. It was morbid, yet oddly sentimental.

"You have a photo of Sherlock Holmes," Lauren commented with a grin. "Although you didn't kill him. He didn't even kill himself."

Jim bared his teeth ferally, finally snapping. He lunged at Lauren, pinning her against the wall. Her cup of tea clattered to the floor. "Don't test me, woman," he growled. He leaned over her, and although her eyes were fearless, her chest heaved. His hands were heavy on her shoulders, bruising. He let her go, watching her slump against the wall. He stalked off, presumably to his bedroom, and slammed the door.

Lauren steadied her breathing, picking up the shards of the broken cup. She wandered around the small flat, opening the door to another bedroom. It was a bit cramped, and unfurnished. No curtains hung from the windows, and the floors were bare. A small bed was pushed against a wall, and Lauren sat on its sheetless surface. It was perfect.

Lauren stood, fixing her skirt, and left the empty room. She rummaged around the flat until she found a spare key, and she walked out the door. If she was to stay here, she would need her things to make her room livable.

When Jim finally came out of his room, Lauren was taking a shower. He walked into the spare room, and found the bed neatly made with mossy green bedding. Lauren had also put up curtains in the same shade, and a thick black rug clung to the floor. A rather large suitcase was lying open near the bed.

Jim searched the suitcase, careful not to mess anything up. There was nothing in the suitcase but clothes and personal items, certainly nothing of suspicion.

Jim was methodically replacing the clothing exactly as it had been when Lauren walked in. Jim looked up, slightly startled at being caught snooping, but not apologetic. Lauren was leaning against the frame of the door, and her eyes flicked up and down Jim's form.

Her face, clean now, was no longer ashen and grey, but fresh and pale and smooth. Her long black hair was pulled high and away from her face, revealing a lovely, white forehead. She wore a long, flowing robe, as black as her hair, and her arms were crossed over her chest. Her cheeks were rosy from the steam of her shower, and Jim couldn't deny that she looked beautiful.

Jim stood and approached her. Her slim lips formed a graceful smirk, and she eyed him through narrowed lids. Jim leaned on the opposite side of the doorframe.

"Why are you in here, James?" Lauren asked calmly.

"This is my flat. I own the place," he defended, folding his arms.

Lauren drew the corner of her lip between her teeth and exhaled. "But that's my suitcase. And I own that," she challenged, studying his face.

"And if you are to stay here, then it is in my best interest to be aware of what you are bringing in and out of the flat. I am not inclined to trust you, nor do I owe you petty things such as privacy and personal space." His eyes were wide and his nose was scrunched in distaste mixed with warning. "However, you do owe me for my hospitality. I could just as easily have you sleep on the streets, and even now it's still a consideration, and a strong one at that," he spat.

Jim watched her face for a change and received nothing. Her smirk remained light and vexing, her eyes keen and bright. She was playing with him. He would play back.

His demeanor changed altogether, and he straightened, tucking his hands in his trouser pockets. He smiled brightly, falsely.

"But feel free to make yourself at home. In fact, be my _guest_," he grinned, voice syrupy and toxic.

Her face closed up fractionally, her eyes calculating, appraising. Jim wetted his lips, mentally smiling. If this was a war, it would be she who waved the white flag. He would die before he surrendered.


	3. Teacups and Consulting Detectives

**A/N: I** **got my inspiration for the last but of this chapter by looking up if Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Edgar Allan Poe were related. They are, unfortunately, not, which I suppose should have been rather obvious because Poe was American and Conan Doyle was Scottish, but you know, hindsight is always 20/20. What I did find out is this jewel of information (which is probably common knowledge, but whatever, I didn't know) that Sherlock Holmes' character was heavily and shamelessly influenced by Poe. Anyway, fun facts aside, here's the next (although kinda short) chapter. **

John had finished moving his things into Sherlock's room, and Rebecca was now furnishing the room with her own stuff. It was cute and girly, with a duvet printed with little green flowers and white eyelet curtains. A few posters were tacked on the walls, and Rebecca loved the room, although, true to her word, she was often absent from the flat.

John, after forcing Sherlock to clean his room and doing some cleaning himself, although still being mildly uncomfortable in the unfamiliar rooms was adjusting well. Sherlock's bed was more comfortable than his own had been, and the room was cozy, in a strange way, although John could more easily hear Sherlock as he paced or experimented in the night. He tried not to let it bother him.

When Rebecca was at the flat, John found himself watching her. She was a sweet girl, really. Bright and happy about nearly everything, and quite smart too. John wanted to like her, but he couldn't keep away the feeling that she was hiding something behind her pale green eyes. He couldn't trust her, not fully. It was unfair, he knew, as she had been nothing but an angel to him and Sherlock both, and he couldn't rationalize it, but it still irked him, and he tried to ignore it.

As John sat in his chair, he heard the sound of light, feminine feet behind him. Rebecca placed a cup of tea in his hands, smiling at him kindly before taking a seat in Sherlock's chair, sipping her own tea. John felt guilty as he hesitated to drink from his cup.

"It isn't poisoned." Rebecca's voice startled John. She sounded more serious than her usual cheerful banter, and John swallowed thickly. She was more observant than he thought.

"Of course it isn't," John said, meeting her gaze. He took a sip.

Rebecca rolled her eyes, smiling lightly. "Relax, I wouldn't try to kill you," she told him. "Not with a detective living in the same flat, anyway," she said tonelessly as she curled her legs into the chair.

Before John could speak, she gave him a teasing smile, breaking into giggles as she brought her tea cup to her lips. John smiled back, but his eyes were not in it.

**...**

"John."

Sherlock's voice broke John out of his thoughts. Rebecca wasn't in the flat, and John was alone with Sherlock.

John looked up at his friend.

"It's highly irrational for you to be worried about our guest."

Of course Sherlock would know exactly what he was thinking.

"I know that, Sherlock. But we don't know anything about her except her name. Who knows what her real motive is," John voiced.

Sherlock sat facing John, placing his hands on his knees. "Listen to me, John. I can assure you that we are both perfectly safe. But stressing over this is taking a toll in you and you need to quit. It's not fair to her, and it's not fair to you either."

John gave him a weary smile. He was glad Sherlock was concerned for him, but it didn't help. "But how can you be sure?" He trusted Sherlock, with his life, but right now he needed undoubtably assurance. Sherlock did not have an answer.

**...**

Rebecca sat by the fireplace, one of the rare occasions that she was actually in the flat. She was reading a book in the warm glow. Since his talk with Sherlock, John had made an effort to put aside his feelings of unease about her, and he had been less stressed, although he still wondered about her, and what she did outside of the flat. She never spoke a word of it, and although John never asked, he knew she wouldn't tell him. Sherlock, however, seemed to trust her entirely, and never felt the need to question her whereabouts. Perhaps he knew what she did. He had a knack for that.

John supposed that of Sherlock had no problem with her, there was likely no problem to be had. John trusted Sherlock's judgement, although he was always one to exercise caution.

"Hey Sherlock," Rebecca called, sticking her finger between the pages of her book to mark her spot. Sherlock hummed in response from the other room.

"You're a consulting detective, right?"

Sherlock hummed again, more interested this time.

"The 'only one in the world,' right?" she pressed further.

"Yes, I invented the job. What are you getting at?" the man asked impatiently.

"Well, it's just that I'm reading this story, and the character reminded me of you," she told him.

Sherlock stumbled into the room, blanching as he scanned the cover of the book:_ The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe._

"I was just thinking that maybe you had read this story and got inspired, because C. Auguste Dupin sounds pretty much like a consulting detective. Of course, the term 'detective' hadn't been coined at the time this was written, but the idea is the same. He didn't even take money for his work, and the police seek his help. The similarity is eerie, actually," Rebecca said, suppressing a smile.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and John thought he looked a bit uncomfortable.

"Well, it is possible that I was a fan of Poe as a child, but any similarities are purely coincidental," he informed, scratching his nose.

John wanted to laugh.

"I thought you didn't believe in coincidences," John couldn't help but tease.

Sherlock looked at him with dismay, as if he had been betrayed, and John did bark a laugh at his stunned face. He quickly sobered as he realized the hurt on his friends face looked genuine.

"You're not actually upset, are you?" John asked, a hint of concern in his voice. Rebecca had gone back to reading her book.

Sherlock sighed, not meeting John's gaze. "No, of course I'm not _upset_. I just didn't expect you to side with her," he grumbled childishly, walking into the kitchen.

John smiled, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, and followed him.

"Sherlock, I'm not siding with her." John leaned against the counter. Sherlock turned to face him. "I was teasing you, pulling your leg a bit. Not trying to laugh at you," John said earnestly.

"I understand that, John. You don't have to apologize," Sherlock said mildly. He turned away to pour himself some tea.

When he turned back around, John gave him a look that said 'I know how you really feel, don't bother lying.' Sherlock sighed internally.

"Sherlock, when I spoke you looked offended. So if I offended you, it wasn't my intent, and I am sorry," John apologized.

Sherlock took a long sip of tea. "John, I'm not mad at you, and this is childish. We're done," he said with finality.

John let it drop, and they both stood for a while, companionably quiet. John studied Sherlock, watching fondly as he swallowed a mouthful of tea.

"You know," John said softly, "In my opinion, you're a much better detective than C. Auguste Dublin."

"Dupin," Sherlock automatically corrected.

John laughed. "See? How good of a detective can he be if I can't even remember his name?"

Sherlock smiled at John, sincere. John was obviously making an attempt to cheer him up, and although he didn't really need it, the gesture was thoughtful, and he was rather touched by it. It was one of the things he liked about John. He was always willing to spare a moment for someone else's sake, something Sherlock would never do. He was selfless and giving, and Sherlock was startled by the amount of _affection_ he felt towards the doctor.


	4. Concerning Oats and Chess

**A/N: Sorry this is late! I was so busy yesterday, I completely forgot that I was supposed to update. I know that's no excuse, and I promise I'll make it up to you guys. Anyway, enjoy the chapter! :D**

* * *

When Lauren woke, Jim was already up and about, and by the sound of it, in the kitchen. She leisurely pushed the sheets from her skin and stood, adjusting to being awake. She padded to the farthest corner of the room where she had set up a little desk. Her robe was draped over the back of her chair, and she slipped into the silky fabric and walked out of her room, her loose hair cascading over her shoulders in atrementous waves.

The smell of food, something sweet, greeted her nose as she entered the kitchen, and Moriarty was at the stove stirring something in a pot. Lauren crossed the room and sat down on a chair by the counter, watching him.

"I made breakfast, if you're hungry," Jim said absentmindedly, turning the stove off and taking the pot off the burner. He threw in a handful of something Lauren couldn't identify and mixed it together. He tasted it, and his eyes widened in delight. He licked his lips.

"What did you make?" Lauren questioned, pouring herself some tea. The cup was warm between her fingers, and little wisps of steam rolled blissfully over her face.

"Oatmeal with blueberries and apples," Jim replied, spooning some of the mixture into a bowl. His face was concentrated, almost lovingly so, and Lauren figured he rather enjoyed cooking.

Lauren made a face. "I'll pass, I think. Not big on oats," she told him, choosing instead to take a sip of her tea. It was hot, and she swallowed it anyway, scalding her tongue and suppressing a grunt of pain.

Jim shrugged, looking vaguely disappointed. "That's fine. I won't force you to eat it. But I can't be responsible for my _guest_ starving," he said as he took a rather large bite of his creation.

He sat next to her, and she looked at him, holding her cup in front of her face with both hands. She studied the way his jaw moved as he chewed, the way his throat constricted as he swallowed. He was handsome, truly, with a strong face and wiry brows. His cheeks were clean-shaven, and his eyes were deep brown, as glossy and dark as the shell of a chestnut. His inky hair was pushed away from his face, neat and perfect, although still damp from the shower he had taken before he made breakfast.

Jim ate in silence, seeming not to notice Lauren's gaze, although she knew he was aware. He was always aware. He finished his food quickly, and rose to wash his dish and tuck it neatly away in a cabinet. He left the room.

Lauren _was_ hungry, and she stared at the pot of oats on the stove. She gave up. The porridge was surprisingly good, and her eyes widened in surprise. Jim walked back in the room, laughing as he immediately realized what had happened.

"That good, huh?" he inquired, gesturing with his chin at the bowl in her hands. She nodded vigorously.

"Yes, actually. It's fantastic," she said after swallowing her mouthful. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"

Jim, although obviously flattered, surveyed her and determined that she was being completely genuine.

He allowed himself a satisfied smile. "Just something I do in my spare time. You know, when I'm not planning or executing murders," he said, mostly joking.

Lauren giggled. It wasn't mocking or rude. It was an honest outlet of amusement, and she was not laughing 'at' Moriarty. He let himself relax a bit, grinning at her in an almost friendly way.

Lauren cleaned up her now empty cup, and she offered to wash the oatmeal pot.

Jim made his way to one of the chairs, lowering himself into it and crossing his ankle over his knee. When Lauren sat down in the other chair, he was back to being perfectly guarded and closed, as was she.

"So tell me, how exactly did you fake a case for our dear little Sherlock?" Jim asked, a mask of indifference on his face.

"Easy," Lauren said dismissively, wrapping her robe tighter around her body. "I didn't fake anything. Well, he obviously didn't know that I was actually getting information for you, but then again, he doesn't know you're alive," she said casually.

Jim lifted an eyebrow, curious. "Oh? Is that so?" he asked carefully, precisely. "I'm really not surprised at his level of idiocy, however, I'm a bit disappointed that he didn't miss me," he gave a mock pout. His eyes turned cold, fixed on Lauren. "Tell me about this case. How did you do it?" Jim folded his hands over his knee. He already had an idea, but he wanted to see what she would say.

"I killed my neighbor. Pretended to be completely distraught, and terrified, thought he had been murdered." She curled her legs into the chair, pulling the edge of her robe down over her knees. Moriarty internally scowled. At least she wasn't wearing shoes. "Of course Sherlock took the case. He was bored out of his pathetic mind, likely contemplating going back to his cocaine habit. John was obviously stressed as well, probably driven halfway mad by the detective's manic energy. Hopelessly simple, really," Lauren explained.

Jim gave her a respectful grimace. "You killed your neighbor to get information. That's quite... unwholesome. How did you do it?" He leaned forward a bit, a spark of curiosity in his eyes.

"A syringe full of air. I stuck it between his toes. He already had a wound there, from what I can't imagine, but to most people it would just seem like he had a heart attack."

Jim looked skeptical. "And Sherlock really believed that this was just a casual death?"

Lauren shrugged. "I guess. John's the doctor. He told Sherlock it was a heart attack. Even if Sherlock found out it was a murder, he'd never trace it back to me, and if, by some miracle, he did that, he'd still never know that I was using him for information to take him down. Not even he is clever enough to figure that out. The thought wouldn't even cross his mind," she insisted.

Jim didn't quite believe her, and he knew she was aware. "But why would you want to take out Sherlock Holmes?" Jim asked. "What do you gain from it?"

"The game, James. Beating the world's most brilliant man at chess. Isn't that what you wanted? To prove how much smarter, more clever you are than him?" Lauren asked slyly.

She was right. That was exactly what Jim wanted.

"We both want the same thing, James," she continued. "You couldn't kill him. I couldn't do it either on my own. But with us both, it's both of our brains, my charm, and your men against him. And his mind pales in comparison, don't you think?" Lauren had a distant fire in her eyes, the kind that turned deadly quickly if it went unchecked.

Now she was talking sense. But Jim wasn't prepared to trust her, not entirely.

"What exactly is your plan?" Jim asked, shifting his weight in his chair.

Lauren smiled widely, wickedly. She had been waiting for him to ask.

Jim leaned forward.

"One more question, darling. What is your _real_ name?"

The woman just smirked.


	5. A Baker St Dozen

Rebecca was bored. It was raining, and the soft patter of drops on the windows was lulling her into a mindless trance. John was at the clinic, and Sherlock was doing... whatever Sherlock does. She sighed, rolling over on her bed. The springs creaked, and she stood up. Her hair fell across her face in messy red curls. She frowned, pushing the uncooperative strands out of her eyes. It was useless, and she scowled in frustration, tying her hair back and out of her face.

Rebecca straightened the sheets on her bed, smoothing out the wrinkles and fluffing her pillow. She looked around. Her room was fairly messy, considering she was hardly ever here. She picked up some trash, throwing it in a wastebasket. Her used clothes got tossed in a hamper. Mrs Hudson would probably wash them later. She picked up a used tea cup, frowning as she couldn't remember bringing it up there. Oh well.

She brought the dirty dish downstairs and placed it in the sink. She surveyed the flat, trying to find something to cure her boredom. Rebecca glanced at Sherlock's stack of papers that had been stabbed with a knife and divided to do some good old fashioned snooping.

She grabbed a banana from the counter, peeling it as she walked to Sherlock's pile of case files. She rifled through the stack, picking up a file for examination. She took a bite of the banana.

A deep voice behind her was startling, but she didn't flinch, nor did she put the file down.

"What are you doing?" Holmes asked with an air of insouciance, more curious than concerned.

Rebecca chewed thoughtfully, not taking her eyes from the file. "This report says that Donald Peters' death was a suicide and that he died from antifreeze poisoning, but the picture clearly shows vomit 'under' the antifreeze bottle, which means he was throwing up prior to ingesting the antifreeze. The report also says that he had high levels of alcohol in his blood, which would explain the vomiting. But a man that drunk wouldn't be able to get far enough out of his room to get antifreeze, let alone bring it back and drink it. This was murder." She took another bite of the banana.

Sherlock grinned. "Of course it was. The wife did it for insurance money. I solved that case over a year ago," he said dismissively.

Rebecca looked at him. "Then why do you still have the file?" she asked. "It's just wasting space, and it's far too unimportant for you to have any sentimental attachment to it."

Sherlock shrugged. "Never got rid if it I guess. Same with the others," he said, gesturing vaguely to the rest of the stack.

Rebecca twisted her lip thoughtfully. "So all of these are old?"

Sherlock nodded, looking disinterested.

"So I can get rid of them and clear out some space?" she asked to confirm.

"Do what you want with them," Sherlock said distractedly, picking up his phone to text someone, probably John. Rebecca smirked.

...

When John returned, shacking the rain off of himself, Rebecca was sitting on the floor with her back pressed against the front of the couch, staring boredly at nothing in particular. John didn't ask what she was doing, but instead walked politely passed her and into the kitchen where Sherlock was... baking.

"What's in the oven?" John asked for the sake of humoring the detective. "Please don't tell me it's goat tongues or something similar."

"Of course not, John. What interest would I have in goat tongues?" Sherlock asked, legitimately baffled that John would think that.

"Stranger things have happened in this flat," John sighed, running a hand through his hair. He would never fully understand Sherlock. "What's really in the oven then, since goat tongues are boring?"

"Muffins," Sherlock answered shortly, slipping on an oven mitt to retrieve the pan of muffins from the oven. They were surprisingly not burnt, and John couldn't hide the shock from his face. This was certainly a first.

"Experiment?" John asked, not even sure anymore.

"Experiment," Sherlock confirmed, flipping the tin of muffins onto a rack to cool.

"Alright, Sherlock Holmes the muffin man who lives on Baker Street, why did you make muffins. Was it for a case?"

"No, they're not for a case, actually," Sherlock replied, tossing the muffin tin in the sink and removing his glove.

"Then why are you making them? They aren't poisoned, are they?" John questioned, mildly concerned.

Sherlock gave him a funny look.

"Why would I want to poison muffins I intend to give to my flatmates?" he asked with borderline offense, and definite incredulity.

John stopped and though for a moment. "You made these... for me and Rebecca?" Sherlock nodded. "Why?"

Sherlock paced around the kitchen like a caged panther. "Why not? I was bored and I wanted to see how you would react. I honestly thought you'd be a little more pleased," he said truthfully.

John rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "It's not that Sherlock. I appreciate it, I really do. It's just not exactly what I would expect to come home to," he clarified.

"But goat tongues are?" Sherlock raised a dark eyebrow.

"More or less," John replied cheekily.

Sherlock huffed exaggeratedly and picked up a muffin. He was about to take a bite when his face contorted in pain, and he dropped the muffin back on the counter, shaking his burned fingers and glaring at the muffin as if it had personally insulted him. "They're hot," he stated obviously, face furrowed offendedly.

John tried not to laugh, and instead dug some ice out of the freezer, dropped it in a plastic baggie, and handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock, being the stubborn arse he is, refused. "I don't need ice, John, I wasn't seriously burned," he insisted, but John would have none of it. He slipped the ice into Sherlock's hand, curling his hurt fingers over it and flashing Sherlock a sweet smile before ducking out if the kitchen before Sherlock could protest.

Rebecca smelled something in the kitchen, and was surprised to find Sherlock had made muffins. But she supposed baking _was_ a form of science, so it wasn't too hard to comprehend, although John probably had a good laugh at the domesticity of it.

Ignoring the ice in Sherlock's hand, which was nearly melted, but he hadn't disposed of it, likely on doctor's orders, she instead glanced at the rack on the counter.

"So, what are you? A consulting pastry chef?" Rebecca joked. "What did you put in the muffins anyway?"

"Besides the typical flour, sugar, baking powder, etcetera, I added cocoa powder, chocolate chips, and walnuts." Sherlock listed off.

Rebecca, who had reached a hand out to take a muffin, pulled her hand pack sharply. "There are walnuts in here?"

Sherlock stared at her. "Yes, that is what I said." He frowned for a minute, before understanding crossed his face. "Oh! You're allergic. Of course," he said, mentally scolding himself for not catching on sooner.

Rebecca nodded. "It's not like I'll die if I eat nuts, but I'd rather not have an allergic reaction, you know?" she said humorlessly.

"Are you allergic to peanut butter as well?" Sherlock asked, thinking about how John had a strange affinity for the stuff.

Rebecca shook her head. "No, I can have peanuts. But no tree nuts. And I'm not contact allergic, so no worries, as long as you don't try to feed me anything with nuts in it," she added, giving Sherlock a stern look.

"No, I won't do that, although you should tell Mrs Hudson, so she doesn't bake anything that would cause you to break out in hives, or whatever," Sherlock said as the muffins were finally cool enough to eat.

He took a bite, gasping in surprise before rushing out of the kitchen yelling, "John! John! Come try my muffins! They're fantastic!"


	6. Even Criminals have Bad Days

Jim Moriarty was having a bad day. An awful day, and quite frankly it was rubbing him the wrong way, and he was irritated to an extent that he knew was irrational and unnecessary. He was practically seething, boiling hotly beneath the surface, and he felt he might explode if the wrong person said something stupid.

To begin, he had been woken up earlier than normal by a stupid 'bird' of all things flying repeatedly against his window. He hadn't slept much the night before, and he'd be damned if he wasn't exhausted, and he had half a mind to slaughter the insufferable thing before it broke it's neck attacking it's own cursed reflection. By the time it finally stopped throwing itself against his window in a frenzied suicide mission, the sun was already up, so there was no point in going back to sleep.

Then, he had moodily shuffled to the shower, wishing to wash his stress away, only to have the water run cold as he was washing his hair. Now he wasn't just exasperated, he was full on pissed, and uncontrollably sad, at the icy shower he had to endure. After he stepped out, freezing and mad, agitatedly trying to rub warmth back into his body, he heard the most obnoxious, high pitched whining noise.

He sighed, pushing his cold, damp hair out of his face and wrapping a towel against his bare skin, he stalked out to find the source of the sound. It was coming from the front door, he realized, and he glided over, still infuriatingly cold, and opened it. To his utter astonishment, a cat, 'a fucking cat' ran in, ducking behind the couch. Jim stared after it for a while, blinking once and he realized it was too well hidden for him to try to chase it out. He briefly wondered why his life had to be so hard before screaming "Damn it!" at the cat, at the shower, at everything.

Once he was dressed, and considerably warmer, he thought, and certainly hoped, that things would be better, but to his misfortune and great dismay, his woes were far from over. Shortly upon exiting his flat, he received a call informing him that one of his men had been disloyal. After exchanging words with the terrified informant, Jim had discovered that there was no one available to eliminate the traitor, which meant he would have to do it himself, and he hated getting his hands dirty.

Several hours later, he swore his hands still felt sticky, and the acrid smell of blood lingered in his nose and on his skin and he was disgusted.

On top of everything, Jim still hadn't found a reason to mistrust his guest. Or by now, she wasn't really a guest, more of a quiet presence in his flat. Months had passed and he felt his guard beginning to slip. Lauren had done nothing aside from what she had told him she would, and had thus given him no reason to be wary of her intentions. If she wanted him dead, she'd have killed him already. He'd given her opportunities, allowed himself to be vulnerable, to see if she would do it.

But still, only a great fool would put their full confidence in someone, hardly more than a stranger, with dubious intentions. And Moriarty was no great fool; he still exercised a healthy amount of persnickety caution.

But now, as he stepped through the door to his flat, he saw the woman sitting in her chair with the goddamn cat sitting in her lap like it owned the place. And she was petting it.

"Why is the cat on the chair?" Jim began lowly, dangerously close to his breaking point. "Don't you know they shed? If I find one hair on any of the furniture, I will cut off your thumbs," he threatened, completely serious. "Now get rid of it, I don't want it in my house." Jim tiredly rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing and trying to be somewhat reasonable. It was hardly her fault his day was so bad, and he wasn't going to take it out on her, no matter how much he disliked her.

Lauren shrugged, picking up the cat, which meowed pitifully, and taking it to the door. She set him down, and giving him one last scratch on the head, shut the door and walked into the kitchen.

Jim sat in his chair, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, feeling worn out and irked. His teeth were drawn back in a peeved snarl, one he had likely worn all day, and he just wanted the whole day to be over.

He heard a small clinking sound and opened his eyes to see Lauren settle gracefully into her chair. He looked down and saw a cup of tea at his side. He took a sip, noticing that it was made the way he liked it, although he had never specified to Lauren how he took his tea.

"Thanks," he said quietly without sarcasm. Lauren nodded once, and opened a book to a marked spot, soon engrossed in her reading.

When his cup was empty, he brought it to the kitchen, noticing it was still early in the evening. 'So much stress in so little time," he thought, rolling his eyes.

He thought about Lauren making him tea. The two of them hardly ever talked, and when they did it was work related, and certainly not mindless chatter. As much as he didn't like the girl, she was inherently not bad, and reasonably likable despite his best attempts. By now, she had all but proven her loyalty, but he couldn't let himself trust her fully, even if she was rather thoughtful and tolerable.

Jim sighed. He didn't know anymore. All he knew was that he was tired. He needed sleep, but it was still early. He reclined on his couch, trying not to sleep but thinking he might, one eye opened to watch, and one ear open to listen.

There was a woody, rustling sound as Lauren closed her book, folding a corner to keep her place. Light steps traced her path to the kitchen, where a quiet swish and a soft thud marked when she opened and closed a cabinet. He heard her breathe, sharp and clear, and her footfalls came faster and more firmly on her way back to the living room.

Jim cracked his eyes open, watching her with his peripheral vision. Her ankles were crossed and her weight was shifted to her left side, and a slender hand rested on her hip. She had a disapproving scowl on her tenuous lips, and her eyes glared darkly at Jim's supine form through shadowy fringe.

"James," she said admonishingly.

Moriarty grunted noncommittally in response.

"Why do you have several bags of pecans? I sincerely hope you aren't trying to poison me." Her voice was low and threatening, and Jim wanted to laugh, almost, at the way she was undermining his authority.

"No. I do not wish to poison you, not yet anyway, although if you continue to defy me, I may rethink that." He had closed his eyes again. "I suppose you should know that I was, until this moment, unaware of your nut allergy."

Lauren stood quietly for a moment, genuinely confused for the first time Jim could remember. His lips twisted in an oddly satisfied smirk.

"I really thought I told you that," she said, still dazed. She shrugged. "Maybe it wasn't you, maybe it was someone else..." she trailed off.

Jim snapped his head in her direction, suddenly alert and keen.

"Sherlock Holmes. You told Sherlock Holmes," he correctly guessed.

Lauren looked slightly taken aback by his swift reaction, but nodded thoughtfully.

Now it was Jim's turn to be confused, as well as disgusted, with, perhaps, a hint of unexplainable and unwanted jealousy.

"Why on earth would you need to inform _him_ of your allergy?" Jim asked, unable and unwilling to hide the sneer from his voice. Lauren, however, seemed unaffected.

"Because he made walnut muffins, and I almost ate one," she confessed easily.

Jim's eyes raked over her, assessing the new information.

"Sherlock... made muffins... for you?" he asked to confirm. "Why would he do that?" His voice shook with baffled disbelief.

"Well yeah, me and John. I'm not really sure why, probably out of boredom, or an experiment. But they weren't poisoned. He ate one himself and gave one to John."

Jim smiled slowly. "So he trusts you enough to make food for you. Interesting."

Lauren rolled her eyes. "Of course he does. I told you I was good," she said smugly. "Getting Sherlock's trust isn't hard. He has no reason to think I'm not who he thinks I am. You on the other hand," she said pointedly, turning to look Jim full in the face. "Are harder. You're cleverer than him, cleverer than Sherlock Holmes. Too clever, actually. You have no reason not to trust me, and yet you still don't. I don't know the reason for that, perhaps you'll never trust me," she pondered. "But it will be easier for us both if you would at least recognize that I know what I'm doing, know how to play the game." She leered at him with narrowed eyes. "We both already know that I haven't killed you, nor will I, because that's not what I'm here for," she said before turning around and retreating to her room. "Goodnight, James," she called over her shoulder.

He did not respond.


End file.
